Cafe Diaries 05
Neruda on my Mind
I wanted to take a break from writing my TMA which I confess is the only thing occupying my mind lately. I wanted to write a poem for my blog, but unfortunately, creativity seems to escape me. (one TMA has a way of sucking up all your energies, imagine making two, I feel dead beat). I’m a frustrated everything; singer, dancer, writer (I try to), poet, artist, name it, I wanted to do it but somehow, failed in it. Anyway, I said I wanted to write a poem, and one writer, a Nobel prize winner at that, came to mind, THE Pablo Neruda. To say the guy’s brilliant is such an understatement. He writes with so much passion, from something as mundane as a flea to an intense emotion such as luuuv. If he’s alive he should write a book : “Poetry for DUMMIES”. I once tried, and when a friend of mine read it, it sounded awful. Even I felt eeeewwww. (*shudder*)
Here’s a sample of a genius’ work, since a dummy like me can’t do it.
(*Sigh*) I’m in desperate need of a muse.
Any takers?
Fleas interest me so much
Fleas interest me so much
that I let them bite me for hours.
They are perfect, ancient, Sanskrit,
machines that admit of no appeal.
They do not bite to eat,
they bite only to jump;
they are the dancers of the celestial sphere,
delicate acrobats
in the softest and most profound circus;
let them gallop on my skin,
divulge their emotions,
amuse themselves with my blood,
but someone should introduce them to me.
I want to know them closely,
I want to know what to rely on.
Love
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the
perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks,
the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice; I have forgotten
your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of
you. I live with pain that is like a wound; if you touch me, you will
do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every
window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because
of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting
stars, falling objects.
